Mid-Summer Sunrise. Stonehenge Bc, Before Covid. Poem by Edwin Hopper

An abandoned lover learns his fate.
Drowns all sorrows at the Winnie Gate.
But don't hate mate, the chance is great.
This magic night you'll get a date.

Brimstone moths on midsummer wing.
Circle glow worms at Figsbury Ring.
A black fat cat, feasts on a rat.
Midges fall to hunting bats.

In the Pheasant the philosopher said,
At the end, we're brown bread. Dead.
It's all science, not some sacred cow.
Facts, not legends of The Golden Bough.
We die. There's only darkness ahead.
Look up, there's bugger all overhead.

Merlin, looked up, at a magic hue,
A moonless, cloudless, midnight blue.
This bright black, almost, blocks out stars,
And pulls bold Britons, out of bars

Not that steady on their feet,
Goblins stalk down Fisherton Street.
Greeting fairies, sweet petite.
Going to the stones, they tweet.
Text a lift in your mates back seat.

Drunken Merry England, kisses lips of June.
inebriated faeries dance, beneath the moon.

All this night, at Salisbury Station,
Curious pilgrims, from all nations,
Take back packs, from London trains,
Then Wilts and Dorset, buses to the plain.

A hungry fox sees movement. Just a toad.
But worth the effort, on Devizes road

King Arthur, here to greet the day.
Says car park charges won't be paid.
Wants English Heritage civil rights.
At National Trust car park ark lights.

Good Kings men from Glastonbury.
Knight riders on the three oh three.
Round Table Knights, back on their bikes.
Painted with the stars and stripes.

Galahad loves his V8 Trike.
And chromed his ladies Lake Pipes.

In the mists on Harrow Way,
There stands the magic queen of fay,
Listening out with girlish wonder.
For Lancelot and Harley thunder.

Homeless Merlin guides a Tesco trolley.
Pondering wisdom of eternal folly.

Huge camper vans of the fairly rich,
Directed over a stone age ditch,
Take all mod-cons, and kitchen sinks,
On new temp roads of plastic links.

Under sweet Honeysuckle and rose,
Last autumns leaves still decompose.
Under the rumble of Heathrow jets,
Robin Hood pills, will end regrets.

Oh Man, I left my car in Oxford.
Must get another. What can I afford?
They will not believe this in New York.
It's Stonehenge car park after work.
I'll snort myself awake all night.
Then sleep home, on tomorrow's flight.

Coaches come and buses go,
Bringing people to the show.
Drunkards vomit, bellicose.
Junkies laugh, and overdose.
My wife asks if you're all right?
Perhaps sit over in the light.
Ambulance medics, fear the worst,
A bed in Odstock, or a hearse.

Police drink tea at cafe tables
Then return to face the babel.
Must be hundreds of them here,
In safety yellow, not riot gear.

At the stones generators putter.
Flies buzz the fence, white moths flutter.
Patient queues are almost straight,
And wait in front of well lit gates.
Just in case you've stuff to hide.
You're searched, before you're let inside.

The Mobile hospital has queues,
Almost as long as for the loos.

Police Girl radios, chatter and blip,
At lines of stalls, with plates of chips.
She says, curl over there old man.
So Merlin sleeps by a burger van.

Robin and his merry thieves,
Offer us fags, of dodgy leaves.
Herne the Hunter, tunes guitar,
Then plays old tunes, beyond bizarre,
With songs of swifts, born on the wing,
And unicorn lives, free from sin.

Weekend hippies in cloaks and hats,
Frown and try to be cool cats.
Oh look darling. Isn't that super.
Buddhist Monks, have a prefab stupa.

The midnight Sun, has not dropped far.
This bright black sky, still kills all stars.
The north horizon has hints of blue.
Silent owl swoops, on a shrieking shrew.

In the centre, the folk get dense.
Drugs and drumming, will, make sense.

Strip off. We'll make our baby here,
And it will be the next Shakespeare.
A cop, thinks of the paper work,
Ignores them. Stupid Burkes.

So, apples always fall to ground.
And Newtons clockwork circles round
No need for Gods. In physics trust
The day will come, it always must

Then the jeers, the drums, the cheers.
The Sun is risen, and darkness clears.
Please God, tell me that you exist.
Or else, what is the point of this?

Over so quick the moment has gone.
The singers falter in their song.
They leave the old eternal rhyme.
Re-set their brains to working time.
Now it's back, to the wage slave rush.
No time to do what's right for us.

Merlin stretched himself, and woke,
Beheld, a fair field, full of folk.
Fearless Britons, in safety gear,
Who work for cash, in gig jobs here.
Clawed grey sticks. Black bags in hand.
Guardians of our sacred land.
Pick our litter from our grass.
Until next year, this too shall pass.

Oh shit. I missed the rising sun.
I dreamt all through it. Too much fun.